


Five times John wanted to punch Sherlock on the face and the one time he did.

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5 Times, M/M, Reichenfeels, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:22:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4818443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from the dead. John doesn't punch him. Until he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times John wanted to punch Sherlock on the face and the one time he did.

**I.**

He came back. He came back from the dead, turned up at 221B with a grin like a cat, and said hello. He said hello like one does to a friend he sees every day, but John hadn’t seen Sherlock in three years. He had accepted he was dead by now. His legs gave in underneath him and the world faded away.

After John came to, his pale face regaining the colour it had lost, his limbs no longer shaking, he felt the urge to punch him in the face.

He didn’t.

He did, however, yell at Sherlock. A lot. He called him names, tried to hurt him with words, told him how alone he was, told him how he went to his grave over and over again and begged him to come back from the dead.

John threw Sherlock’s skull at him, but the fucker caught it mid-throw.

Once John was done throwing things around and Sherlock was done dodging and catching them, they had tea. John stared and snarled. By the end of the night, things were just like before Sherlock had died.

In as much of the word “dead” as you can apply to Sherlock, anyway.

 

**II.**

Everyone who had met Sherlock and John together were already used to their fighting when they thought no-one was watching or listening. They had been caught enough times bantering or shouting that no-one was truly surprised to see their murderous looks cross in a crime scene anymore.

It had even been rumoured among the Scotland Yarders that the person who had put the cut on Sherlock’s cheekbone last Fall had been, in fact, John. Some said he had walked in on Sherlock with another man. Others (such as Anderson), thought this unlikely and said it was probable he had been using and John found out — he had, after all, been oddly calm as of late.

Gossip spread better than electricity in a pool, as their latest crime scene proved.

The body of a young woman was lying next to the pool, eyes closed against her pale skin and lips, as John and Sherlock waited for the forensic investigators to finish their job. They found nothing strange ( _typical_ , Sherlock hissed) and went away. Once the consulting detective was done listing some of the apparently obvious fifteen or so reasons why the crime scene was all wrong, John and D. I. Lestrade exchanged a half amused, half exasperated look.

But then they saw it: Sherlock’s eyes widened, his features relaxed, his lips parted. “Oh,” he whispered, and then spun around with a flourish of his coat behind him, striding away from the D.I. and the doctor.

“Sherlock?” John moved to follow as he heard him mutter things to himself. “Sherlock!”

The detective hit his head repeatedly with his palm, calling himself stupid for not realising something before. He threw the doors open and John found himself being hit in the head by one as it bounced back. The blow made him stagger back and grab his forehead. He grunted.

Sherlock waved his hand at an approaching cab and got in.

“Bloody hell! He always does this to me. Just leaves me behind whenever he damned well feels like it!” he yelled at the retreating car.

John turned around and strolled back to Greg. 

Greg shot him a sympathetic smile, and John’s hand left his forehead to punch a wall.

 

**III.**

“I don’t understand what is making you this angry!” Sherlock huffed.

John spreaded his arms to his sides. “You don’t see it, do you? You don’t understand it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We were in it together, Sherlock. You chased after the suspect, who was not only a serial killer, but also a bongers one, and left me behind!”

“I thought you were right behind me. It’s not my fault you can’t keep up. Next time, I’ll just sit around and wait for you while the murderer gets away, shall I?”

John’s hands fisted as he purposefully ignored Sherlock's interjection. “And not just that. You could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

“But I didn’t, did I?” Sherlock took a step forward, his sense of personal space as deficient as usual. “I didn’t get killed, and you caught up in the end, and I solved another murder, so what the _hell_ is pissing you off, really?”

John held his gaze for a moment before he pushed past him, closing the door to his bedroom behind himself. Sherlock grimaced at the closed door but remained silent.

 

**IV.**

John huffed as he took in the fingers secluded in their microwave, closed it again, looked down. He held onto the counter and stretched his back.

“Sherlock!”

Nothing. “Sherlock!”

Nothing, again. Of course. He rubbed his eyes.

With a huff, John spun around in order to go find Sherlock. But he wasn’t able to. As he turned, a purple object creeped into his field of vision. Not a second had gone by before John was in full combat position: one leg behind the other, hands fisted — right higher than the left one —, body turned to a side. Before him, Sherlock stood, eyes wide, hands seemingly floating in front of him, making contrast against his - - purple shirt. Oh.

John relaxed his body.

“Sorry.”

“This isn’t Afghanistan, John.”

John glared at him. “I know that, but remember, you bring murderers and mad people into this house. What would you expect?”

With that, he strolled back up to his bedroom, his appetite gone.

 

**V.**

John couldn’t talk. His mouth was being covered by a piece of fabric and the dizzying smell of chloroform was filling his senses. His struggle was now weak; he knew his attempts at shaking off the serial killer that was pinning him to the wall were futile, but he couldn’t go down without a fight. Maybe it was the soldier in him.

Maybe.

It would have been fantastic, though, that the soldier in him actually _could_ put up a fight.

The killer was grinning ferociously in front of him, the gums of his teeth peeking from the edges of his lips. His green eyes were wide and frantic. The small cut John had managed to make on his cheek was now bleeding onto his plaid shirt.

Good. At least he had done some damage.

He could feel the bricks behind his head, the slick, sticky surface yanking his short hairs and the sand scraping his skull, and he whimpered. He was scared. He was done for. He gave up...

He saw his aggressor’s eyes roll back before he heard the shot. It wasn’t until he was on the floor, under the serial killer’s dead body, that John saw Sherlock striding towards him, gun in hand.

The weight was lifted off him, but he still couldn’t move.

Sherlock lifted his eyelids and observed. His hand went to the back of John’s head and then back to him, clean. No bleeding, then. He was smacked by Sherlock’s gloved hands. He grunted, wanting to say “fuck off” but unable to. He was so tired.

John’s eyes closed again, even as he felt Sherlock speaking, asking far away whether he could walk. He grunted again. Sherlock was moving against him, there was a click and beeps on a phone. John’s head felt heavy on his neck, yet light as it bounced. Sherlock got him to his feet and dragged him out of the alley, whispering his name and orders John could feel his body respond to, if not his head. On the cab ride home, Sherlock called Lestrade.

His voice was so far away when he said into the phone, “Your murder and murderer were dealt with. The man’s handcuffed and bleeding. Go pick him up,” he said, lip curled up as he recited the address. “We’re on our way to 221B. He drugged John.”

John felt lighter the further they traveled, as though a pressure he hadn’t even been aware of was releasing him as they went, leaving him feeling lighter. His head was resting against Sherlock’s shoulder. He was too weak to feel bothered about it, and Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.

The cab stopped and John woke up, even though he had no memory of falling asleep. And when had his head dropped to Sherlock’s lap?!

He felt Sherlock’s fingers running through his hair and a soft caress on his cheek.

John bolted up, but was too dizzy and feeling heavy — he must have been drugged with something else on top of the chloroform — to look half as indignant as he felt.

“We’re here,” Sherlock murmured. Then he got out of the cab and went up the stairs.

John was about to follow when the cabbie called him back, demanding payment for his services.

Once again, John felt like punching Sherlock as his eyes tried to make sense of the bills in his wallet. By the time he got upstairs, he felt too exhausted to bother confronting him, however, so he dragged himself to the couch and dropped there. He fell asleep soon after that.

 

**VI.**

Everything smelled of Sherlock.

That was the first thing his brain registered as he woke up. It was as if he was right there with him, wrapped around his body like an octopus. Like a gorgeous, possessive octopus who played the violin. God, that was a good tune. John hummed in his head, grip tightening on the cushion he had been hugging.

He purred as the coat on top of him slipped higher, covering his arms. Sherlock’s scent intensified. For a moment, he was 100% content. The music stopped, the sound replaced by light footsteps.

“You are an idiot.”

John sighed and closed his eyes again. When he opened them, he was glaring at the man hovering over him.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“Y—” his voice was hoarse, so he swallowed and tried again. “You do that all the time.”

“No I don’t,” Sherlock protested. John didn’t reply. “I at least know what I’m doing.”

“I do too. I was in the army, remember?”

Sherlock made a point of sighing as he handed John a glass of water. “Not this again. You were a doctor!”

“An _army_ doctor, Sherlock!” John sat up, glad his limbs were responding again, and drank. “You always run off after the bad guys, anyway.”

“So?”

“So your premise is hypocritical.”

Sherlock was silent.

John stretched out and got up. He walked to the kitchen for some tea, Sherlock in tow.

“You can’t do that again. Do you even know how — I — I thought something might have happened to you!”

John spun around, astonished. “As a matter of fact, yes. Yes I do know how you felt, because you’ve run off after the bad guys time after time. Even when I asked you not to.”

“But this is different!” Sherlock protested

“How is it any different?! You leave me behind. All the bloody time! Will you deny it?”

“Yes, I will, because this was different! You didn’t wait for me, but I always wait for you. You ran off, and you left me behind without so much as a word, and you didn’t know whether I would show up, and...!”

“Shut the hell up!” John hollered.

“... how could you know I’d get there in time? How...”

“Sherlock, _seriously_ , shut up!”

“... did you know I’d get to you before he killed you? You’re weaker than I am, John. What would have happened if I hadn’t made it there in time? Would you have defended yourself with the ridiculous moustache you had earlier this year? Hmm? You can’t defend yourself--”

That’s what did it. John punched Sherlock square in the face, not realising he was doing so. He felt a bolt of electricity and pain run through his hand and arm, and heard Sherlock’s grunt. When he raised his head, Sherlock’s cheek was red and his hand was trying to cover it up.

Sherlock looked up, and there was so much pain in his eyes, John was taken aback.

His breathing was hard. “Oh God.”

“You hit me.”

The scene replayed in John’s head like a loop. He took a step forward, placating hands in front of him. “Oh God, I’m— well, I’m not gonna say I’m sorry. You damned well deserved that.” He rubbed his quickly-growing-sore hand and tried fisting it and unfisting it.

Sherlock actually looked baffled. “What?”

John crossed his arms. “You weren’t listening. You never _listen_ to me, Sherlock! I— Okay, yes, I hit you, but do you even hear what you are saying?! Jesus! I’ve wanted to punch you since we met, but now... It’s disturbing how you can say all that without realising how bloody hypocritical you’re being. You—”

“I was worried! What were you expecting?” Sherlock spread his arms, leaving his face bare. There was a small cut on his cheekbone, blood staining his pale skin. “What? You can make a scene and I can’t? I thought I’d lost you!”

John threw daggers at him through his eyes. “And I did lose you, three years ago!”

Sherlock scoffed. “But I was _alive_. It would have been different!”

“No, it wouldn’t have, because you were dead to me!” The words came out of John’s mouth, unwanted, loud.

Silence.

“But I wasn’t dead.”

“But you made me believe you were.” John took a step towards the living room and spun around, almost colliding against Sherlock’s body. “You left me alone, three years ago. You went away, made me believe you were dead, and just... vanished. There is an empty grave with a tombstone that has been haunting me in my sleep. That piece of rock has been more bloody present in my life than you have, up to the point where it became you in my mind!” Sherlock was silent. “And you ran off after Moriarty, killed him, and then failed to let me know you weren’t dead. And all the while, I was constantly going up to your grave and crying, because you were my best friend, and you were gone. Do you— Do you have any idea what it felt? To cry over you for three years, to be so depressed Greg had to come and drag me down to the pub after I hadn’t eaten anything for five days in a row? To be chased by journalists, and to see your face everywhere?” John looked down. “And you didn’t take me with you. That’s what upsets me the most. Because you have no idea how I missed you. You have no idea. And also because I thought you trusted me. I thought you cared for me.”

“John—” 

“Because I cared for you. Still do. And you are an arsehole, and a hypocrite, and I care for you.”

“John—”

“Shut up.”

John looked up then. His eyes silenced Sherlock for good. He didn’t make a sound as John’s hand moved up to his neck, nor as he was pulled down and kissed square on the lips. He didn’t make a noise, and John was thankful.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my second five times fic I wrote back in the day, during the previous hiatus. No idea why I hadn't posted it 'till now! This was written and edited on 13/09/2013, so it's been overdue for two years. Many thanks to Brianne, my lovely beta!


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